First, last, forever
by Garrae
Summary: "What would you do if it was the last night of your life?" He knew what he would do. He'd do what he hadn't done before the bomb, what for long, desperate, gruelling and agonised moments he'd thought he would never have the chance to do. Two shot. First chapter T. Second chapter M.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"What would you do if it was the last night of your life?" she asked, dark eyes huge and liquid, fingers caressing and coddling her elephants as if they were the last hope of a safe haven.

It was late: the bullpen empty and mostly dark, but Beckett didn't seem to be going anywhere – it seemed like she hadn't been going to go anywhere since the perp had been taken down to Holding two hours ago. The subsequent paperwork had been done long since, too, and there was no reason at all for Beckett still to be there, fidgeting with the elephants and messing with make-work.

Of course he was there with her. Where else should he be but shadowing his muse – his muse that he had so nearly, nearly lost to a crazed killer with a taste for C4 and – obviously, since he'd gotten into Beckett's Fort-Knox secured apartment – an ability to pick locks. Well, he'd been shoved in a cell somewhere a few weeks ago, and Castle hoped he'd rot there forever.

"You're maudlin," he deflected, worried about her mood. She'd been quiet and withdrawn ever since they'd exited Interrogation with a confession in hand; but truthfully, now he thought of it, she'd been similarly withdrawn, reserved even, ever since she'd found her new sublet and moved out. He hadn't dared ask her to stay, when she'd been so clearly in need of her own still, serene space: he'd seen her eyes jumping and skittering as his mother's over-exuberant and frequently over-lubricated personality had occupied the entirety of the public parts of the loft, and the nightly late-hour coffees in the peace of his study hadn't wholly cured it.

She was a woman, Castle remembered, who needed space and privacy: who needed to shut out the world. _He_ did it with writing, losing himself for hours in the inside of his own head, where only his characters disturbed him, until he could put them on a page and have silence. Beckett, so _present_ , so stage-front and in command of every aspect of her detective's day – retreated to her own apartment and took ease from solitude.

But still, he worried that this was more than her normal need for emptiness around her in which to recharge: more than her usual reserve. There was a difference in the tone of her silence and the set of her shoulders as she left her desk for the elevator.

"Let's go for a drink. I know a quiet bar not too far from here."

"Quiet? You?" but it didn't carry her normal snark.

"Yeah. C'mon. First round on me."

"Whatever." She slid off her chair and packed up as efficiently as always, ready to go in less than six minutes including a restroom break (he counted. Yes, it was creepy. No, he didn't care).

They walked in customary stride the few blocks to the bar, as ever, the critical distance apart that Castle longed to break: to draw her to him and walk with her within his arm, tucked by his side. Her words rang in his head: plangent, almost tolling. _If it was the last night of your life_. He'd known – he would never forget – how he had felt, frantically dialing and redialing and seeing the explosion from the sidewalk, minutes too late. He had thought that, though he had understood her terror, the satisfaction of the outcome and the weeks following had softened it. He wondered, suddenly, if he'd been wrong. She sounded like a woman who'd been contemplating her own mortality for far too long. _The last night of your life_.

The bar was indeed quiet, bright over the counter, dimming towards the back. Beckett, surprisingly, aimed directly for a small booth far from the counter and any bright lighting, dropped her purse and jacket in it following a brief inspection, and followed them down to the seat.

"White wine?" he asked. It was her usual choice.

"Vodka tonic, please. Ice."

He managed not to show his surprise. Beckett didn't often go for the hard stuff, and Castle understood from her history exactly why that was.

"Okay."

He exchanged compliments with the barman and returned with a glass of very fine single malt for himself and the requested vodka tonic for Beckett: sitting down with the usual space between them. Strangely, despite asking for it, she was in no hurry to drink. Castle sipped his Scotch and let the silence draw out: almost companionable. He could feel an odd undertow: with anyone else he'd have thought that they wanted to talk, spill out their thoughts and hopes and dreams – and nightmares, because she was staring into the glass as if it were strychnine and there was a pained crease between her elegant eyebrows. The glass turned in her long fingers, and turned, and turned.

"You didn't answer," she said, out of the blue.

"Uh?"

"Earlier. When I asked you what you would do if it was the last night of your life."

She looked up from the swirling liquid for the first time since he'd set it down.

"You didn't answer," she repeated.

That would have been because he didn't dare. If it were the last night of his life… he knew what he would do. He'd do what he hadn't done before the bomb, what for long, desperate, gruelling and agonised moments he'd thought he would never have the chance to do: he would kiss her as he'd always wanted to, hard and forceful and passionate and possessive and with all his tide of love within it and around her, and she would respond and be his. But he didn't dare. He took a sip of his Scotch.

"Never mind," she said, brisk and cool. "It was a dumb question." She lifted her own glass to her lips, set it down again, barely tasted. "I'd better get home. It's late."

"Don't you want your drink?"

"I thought I did, but..." She trailed off, picked up her purse, slung her jacket over one shoulder. Castle, scenting subtext but failing to understand, drained his measure.

"I'll walk you home," he said. There had been something, somewhere, behind her words, and it would come to him if he'd only let it be. She merely shrugged, somehow diminished and reserved again. Had she been any other woman, he'd have known it for disappointment, and expected to see the sting of tears in her eyes. But it was Beckett, who never accidentally revealed any scrap of emotion, and certainly never cried. Or... she never cried where anyone could see her.

Suddenly it became clear. She _had_ wanted an answer, and she'd half-expected him to, well, make a declaration. She had to know how he felt, and she'd been giving him an _opportunity_. Opening a door. Oh, Beckett. Oh my love – and then he knew exactly what he had to do.

"You don't have to, I can get a cab," she said.

"Nope. It's a nice night, the stars are out, the moon is full" –

"So I should worry that you'll turn into a werewolf and rip my throat out in a back alley?"

"No. But being a werewolf would be totally cool."

She rolled her eyes, quite in the normal way, but they were still shuttered and dull, and (which Castle was sure she didn't know) liquid gleamed over them.

"Anyway, I'm going to walk you home."

And when they got there, he would answer her not-at-all-dumb question and then there would be no unhelpful subtext getting in the way.

The walk didn't take long, especially at Beckett's rapid pace. Castle concluded that, having (so she thought) semi-offered an opening to talk, and having had it (so she thought, again) closed off, she simply wanted to be alone and cover up all her feelings before she saw him in the bullpen again tomorrow.

Well, it wasn't going to happen that way. He rapidly formulated a plan, and despite her clear touch-me-not and please-go-home aura, walked her not just to her block door but calmly followed her into the elevator and along her corridor.

"Could I get a coffee?" he asked as they approached her door. For an awful instant, he thought she would refuse, sure that her lips were forming _I want to be alone_ , but ingrained good manners won out.

"Okay."

Tension loomed in her spine and neck as she opened her apartment. He hadn't been here yet, and the developing awkwardness of her attitude surprised him. She wasn't usually awkward: but here was a half-felt shyness: almost timidity. Beckett was not normally _timid_. More... terrifying.

He followed her in and stared around, stock-still not two strides in. It wasn't – oh, God: it wasn't Beckett at all. It was _empty_. He hadn't thought... but of course she had had to start again, of course she wouldn't have replaced everything yet, of course her eclectic choice of furniture and decor couldn't have been replicated in just a few weeks.

"Coffee?" she gritted out, and he realised it wasn't the first time of asking.

"Please." He forced his feet to move towards the couch, bare of throws or cushions, and sat down. Shortly, a tray with mugs arrived on the low table in front of it. He examined the table.

"That's nice," he said, tracing the grain of the wood and the old-fashioned, curved legs with paw-feet at the ends – cabriole legs, his memory for trivia told him.

"Flea market," she admitted, "and then I got it stripped and re-polished. It's walnut."

Castle thought that the brief commentary, leaving out a substantial amount of detail, was very Beckett. Much like the table, in fact. A second or two later he recognised that his concentration on the table was very Castle – procrastination and avoidance. He swallowed, and prepared to re-open the earlier conversation.

"Um..." She wasn't even sitting close to him, and he couldn't see her face. All the air was surely draining from the room, because he couldn't catch a breath and his lungs were closing like his throat.

"Yeah?" It came out tired and small, as if everything were too much effort for her. Her mug clicked down, the coffee in it sloshing, joining his on the tray.

"Earlier..." he began, faltering. "Earlier you asked what I would do if it was the last night of my life."

"It doesn't matter. It was just a dumb question."

"It _does_ matter," he bit, no longer prepared to accept evasions and suddenly not faltering at all. "It matters, because what I would do is _this_ ," and he leaned across, pulled her into his arms and lap and kissed her.

Beckett, unflatteringly, emitted a shocked gleeping sound, which was abruptly cut off by Castle's mouth taking hers. There was certainly no more gleeping, shocked or otherwise. Beckett's lips parted like a flower opening: gentle against his, and her sharp angles and stiff spine softened and curved in his arms to lean into his broad frame and let him cage and cosset her as he'd wanted to for months, as he'd desired more desperately with every minute she'd stayed at his loft – as he'd never been able to before.

He'd started almost tentatively, alert for any indication that he'd totally screwed up – it wasn't like screwing up was uncommon, for either of them – but as soon as her lips parted he dived in: immediately confident, sure, commanding and possessive. His arms tightened around her, his hand ran up and into her hair, curving around her skull and angling her perfectly for his conquest. She traced his jaw, cupped his face and then dropped her hand a little to curl around and over his shoulder, turning into him, cuddling closer. He ceased his exploration of her mouth, and guided her head to his shoulder, nestling her within his clasp and burying his nose in her hair.

"If it were the last night of my life," he murmured, "that's what I'd do." But he didn't let go of her, couldn't let go of her: never would let go of her, if he were granted his wishes.

She snuggled closer: quiet and still: peaceful for the first time, he thought, in weeks, if not months. Her head rested in the crook of his neck, her eyes closed and the lashes sweeping her sharp cheekbones, the fine-cut lines of her face. It occurred to him that she was on the drawn side of slender; a fraction too light, too narrow. It didn't reduce or mar her beauty, but a closer look told him that there were shadows beneath the lashes which didn't come from the lighting.

"If it were the last night of our lives, I'd hold you close with me: I wouldn't let you go. No-one should meet that dark night alone. I'd be there with you, and we'd go together."

"'To die will be an awfully big adventure'?" she quoted.

"I'd rather not die."

"Everybody dies," she whispered. "Eventually, sooner or later, everybody dies." It wasn't edged, or snarky. She had returned to that same odd maudlin mood as she'd been in earlier. Castle's heart wrenched. She wasn't thinking of him, or even herself. She was thinking of her mother: the far-off cadence and undertone taking her to that still white sepulchre of eleven years ago.

He simply held her as close as he'd said he would do if that long good night beckoned: knowing her mother hadn't gone there gently; sent by an unknown rage.

"Stay here," he murmured. "Stay here with me. Just...be together." Somehow, his words eased her, and she turned to be completely enclosed. Quiet serenity enfolded them. He thought she was asleep, and wondered whether sleep had been hard won and easier lost. He'd rarely seen her tired: or maybe it was simply that she'd never allowed him to see her tiredness. He stroked her back soothingly, as time passed unnoticed.

"If it had been the last night of my life," she breathed out, almost a sigh on his ears, "I would have wanted to spend it with you."

Castle swallowed, hard. She wasn't looking at him, eyes remaining shut, but the sudden tightness of her body, as if she were curling into herself, retreating... he had to find the right words, somewhere.

And in the fastness of his constant heart, he found them.

"You...don't have to wait that long," he offered up. "If you want... whenever you're ready, Beckett. Because I want to spend every night with you in my arms." He swallowed again. "You're already in my heart."

Her eyes opened, full of a soul-shattering hope; her hand clutched on his nape, and, slowly, she stretched up and met his lips, already half-way down. Her mouth was soft, almost tentative, unsure; but Castle, adept at Beckett-reading, was confident of her admission and intent on proving her right; proving to her that he would be there. He was strong yet gentle, carefully possessive, a slow-paced meeting of mouths that brought with it a sense of promise, of permanence. The heat was there, but banked: embers which at any point might flare and begin the blaze, but not yet. These moments were for something different: learning each other in a different way; closeness and comfort. Blazes and scorching could wait, branding each other with touch didn't need to happen immediately. Together, they had time.

They had time to kiss softly, to touch carefully, to learn together. Passion would come soon enough, no need to speed its journey. And so he didn't press, though earlier he had thought he would, but explored; didn't raid and ravage and insist through his kiss that she should surrender and succumb, but persuaded; as she did the same for him: her hands light about his face, whispering through his hair. She tasted of her coffee, and of coming home; she fitted him as perfectly as he'd ever hoped she would.

His kiss deepened as he began to explore more firmly, bringing a little power and passion to her response, but still careful, still leashed, still reining back his desire. She responded, bringing her own desire into play, and when her hands tightened on him and pulled his head closer he knew that he could start to change the game up.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Part two on Tuesday._


	2. Chapter 2

_Reminder: this chapter is rated M. Stop here if you don't like that._

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

His hand slipped under her shirt, finding the satin skin of her back and, distressingly, the hard protrusions of her vertebrae: more prominent than fitness would dictate. He'd feed her properly, he decided, and promptly parked the problem, because she was making pleased, contented noises and hadn't stopped kissing him for a second. Still, it recalled him to his intentions: changing up didn't mean hard or rough or rapid. The first time, he wanted _love_ , not blazing passion. He would make love to her, delicate and gentle and slow. No doubt that they would reach fast, scorching, even angry – but presently, it should be about nothing more than love, and joy, and connection.

His strokes swept her spine, in time with his kisses, and she explored in turn: light fingers untucking his own shirt and finding hard muscle, shifting round and carefully, intently opening buttons until his shirt slid from his shoulders and she curled into the warmth of his flesh, caging her so that he could perform the same slow, seductive unpeeling.

When that was done, he set her back against his enclosing arm and assayed her as if she were fine platinum, smooth creamy-white skin set off by a blood-red bra. He ran a finger along the scalloped edge, teasingly slow, and watched as her breathing deepened and her eyes turned dark. She reached for him, glided a barely-there touch across the slight swell of his pecs and down to his sternum, tracing the faint, light chest hair, and stopping some way above his belt buckle.

He wandered as lightly as she into her cleavage, nothing intent, nothing hasty, but the tips of his fingers couldn't help dancing over the curves and stroking; his lips couldn't help but redescend to hers, and there, skin touching skin and hands smoothing over backs, they stayed, making out in slow, quiet serenity, finding those still small spaces which pleased the other, moving from lips to jaw or neck and pulsing the nerves there, feeling the beat of their hearts slowly accelerate.

Hands gripped more tightly, mouths became more demanding, the temperature between them began to rise. All Castle's good intentions regarding slow, gentle love-making were starting to cinder as the embers roared into flames and everything that had always been there, but that had been buried, sparked into life.

She sneaked her hand from his waist to steal across to his belt buckle, and before he noticed her thievery she undid it, followed by the button of his pants. Only the metallic sussuration of the zipper caught his attention: too late for him to stop or stay her sensual assault. She glided fingers over him, and he sprang to instant attention. When she did it again, just as flickering and light as the first touch, all consciously smooth suavity and sophisticated sensuality took flight.

Fortunately, he didn't need conscious thought to be smooth, suave, sophisticated or indeed sensual with Beckett. All he needed was her, and here she was. For the first time that evening, he touched her with deliberate eroticism, palming her breast. She pushed into his hand, wriggling a little, and he followed his hand by leaning her back over his arm so that he could put his mouth to the mounds and start to discover what she liked. She had already found at least one thing _he_ liked: delicate hands meeting soft skin over hard weight. Despite her overtly sexual action, her touch was almost tentative, as if, at any moment, he might withdraw from her.

Withdrawal was the very last thing on his mind.

"I'm not going anywhere," he rasped, and then smiled wolfishly. "Except maybe your bedroom."

She gazed sleepily at him. "Mmm," she hummed with serene assent, and moved her fingers teasingly.

He played a little with her nipple, rolling a little, kissing a little more, lipping and then sucking: with intent but without haste. No nipping, no tiny flicks of oh-so-pleasurable edginess: nothing but deft, painstaking fingers and mouth; nothing from her except the same care; as if both of them were fragile crystal, like to break, and yet the delicacy they were displaying was as intensely arousing as any heated, forceful collision of mouths and bodies.

Delicate strokes took his fingers down to the fastening of her skinny jeans, where he found buttons not a zipper. So much the better: he could undo them slowly, one by patient one: wind her higher before he gave her more.

As the first brass button opened, her teasing fingers stilled and her breathing sharpened and shallowed. He paused, and kissed her, deep and slow, sure of his welcome and her response. Her hands moved back to his neck, holding him tight to her so that she leaned in, and shifted a fraction so that there was no barrier to his questing fingers. He accepted her open invitation, and undid another button, allowing one long, thick finger to sneak under the denim, over the silky fabric below. From the confession of the arch of her hips towards him, it wasn't enough. He continued kissing her: despite his best intentions probing more deeply, pressing her harder as her fingers began to bite into his shoulders.

Another button fell open. Beckett – that strange, fey, receptive Beckett – gasped softly and squirmed against his nearly-there hand; nails beginning to mark grooves in his skin; a small, encouraging nip. She wrested control of the kiss, exploring his mouth as he had explored hers, more confident now, that careful half-uncertainty dissipating in his sure clasp.

A final button gone, and Castle lifted her without effort – she blinked, his sheer strength clearly a surprise to her, and then smiled, cat-like, and let him whip her jeans away. They should have been more difficult to remove, he thought – his experience of skinny jeans not being entirely favourable – and again he resolved to feed her more, remove that undue leanness. But she was sitting in his lap in panties and bra, perfectly poised and just plain perfect, still curled in, nestled – almost protected.

"You're overdressed," she whispered.

"We're in the wrong place," he answered, set her away from him for an instant, stood, and swept her up; aimed for the only possible place for her bedroom and proved himself right; laid her down gently on a deep forest-green coverlet and let his own pants drop to the floor. She blinked once more, surveying him with appreciative surprise, before he joined her on the bed.

"Like what you see?" he teased.

"Mmm."

He would need to learn the tenor and flavour of her hums, since it seemed that Beckett's reluctance to use one word when none would do was not confined to work. That hum, however, carried considerable pleasure, and he preened a little and caught her close to him, skin to skin.

"I've got you now," he noted. "All here, and all mine." But for long moments he simply held her, nuzzling into her hair and neck, one arm beneath her, one draped around her, ending on her rear but not – yet – stroking or pressing. Her arms wrapped around his chest in turn, cuddling close, petting.

Castle rapidly decided that he liked being petted. It wasn't something that had often happened to him – generally his previous...um... _interests_ had been far more interested in heated sex. Meredith certainly had. Gina... yes, well. Gina's interest in him had been variable, chiefly downward until all that had been left was their shared interest in the success of his books. She certainly hadn't wanted to pet him.

He really hadn't realised how comforting it was to give and receive affection without instantly progressing to sex, even if they were mostly naked in Beckett's bed and – no. _Sex_ was not on the menu. _Making love_ was on the menu. And _making love_ in Castle's mind meant starting right here, with affection. He petted in his turn.

Gradually petting strayed into more sensitive areas, running over Beckett's silk-clad rear, dipping over her hip to her thigh, slipping across the soft surface but not, so far, searching out her centre. She played around his pecs, light kisses, twiddling tiny knots of chest hair, surprisingly indefinite.

"I thought," she began, and stopped.

"Yeah?"

"I guess I never thought it would be like this."

"Like what?"

She blushed fiercely, and hid her face against his chest. He crooked a finger under her chin, and tipped her face up so he could see her. "C'mon. You can't just leave me hanging. I'll think I'm doing it wrong or something." He widened his eyes at her, and batted his lashes.

"Stop that," she snipped, but then she tried to hide again.

Castle tipped her face up, again. "Stop hiding, then, and I'll stop fluttering my eyelashes at you. Though it's totally unfair that it doesn't turn you to mush." He saw her eye-roll with some relief.

"I..." she gulped... "I thought you... um... it would... um... I never thought it would be _sweet_."

Castle stared at her. "You don't want sweet?" His heart sank.

"Yes... No..." she flustered, and then a spate of words gushed out. "I _do_. I do like it like this right now. But somehow I always thought it...we... would be angry or there would be a crisis or ...or..." The flow cut off.

Castle gathered his thoughts and took care with his answer. It was too important for missteps. "Me too," he began. "But... I want to" – he hesitated, and changed the sentence – "I want more than one angry or terrified night and then we never talk about it ever again. I don't want this to be a one-time thing." He looked down into her nervous face, but she wasn't trying to run. "I want to start this off right."

"Yes," she assented, and rather than emit further words, hugged him hard and then stayed as close as two bodies might be: his Beckett, always so much more comfortable with actions than with words, showing him as clearly as she ever could that she was all in. Though, he mused, tucking her in, if she hadn't managed those first words... Well, she had. She'd made the first move.

He turned her face up to his again, leaned down slowly, and took her lips once more, sweeping away the moment of uncertainty – but oh, they'd made admissions that couldn't be unmade; would never be unsaid – in the sure heat of their connection. His hand smoothed over her back, brought her heat against his hardness; they gasped in unison when she opened so that he could press right where he should be, through the fabric still between them.

Castle smoothed up her back again, unclasping her bra and drawing it from her arms, gazing reverently at the pink-tipped curves and then worshipping them with fingers and lips until she moved and gasped and rubbed over him, ran her hands down his flanks and rolled his boxers down till she couldn't reach any further and Castle broke from his attention to her breasts and finished the job, kicking the boxers away and then returning to her breasts, briefly, then sliding slowly downwards. His wicked, experienced fingers dipped beneath the silk at her hip bones, played there for an instant, and then eased the panties away so that they were both naked: open and exposed in more than merely bodies.

She stroked down and over his ass, trying to pull him over her, but that wasn't Castle's game: not yet. Slow and easy, loving and giving. He loved to give, and he was going to give her the best (and, he hoped, the last) first night she'd ever had.

"Stop hurrying," he murmured. "We've got plenty of time. I want to know you inside out." She made a cross little mew, as he refused to be shifted. "Let me." He wanted to add _love you_ , but that was one step too far – until, perhaps, the morning.

She emitted a small humph, and her lips formed a tiny pout, so ridiculously adorably not-Beckett-like at all that he couldn't help but kiss it. While kissing, his fingers wandered, learning the texture of her skin, the spot a little below her waist that made her squeak and wriggle, the too-sharp jut of her hip bones and the concavity of her stomach; the rack of her ribs and the tight-strung muscles of her lean legs. Her skin was satin-smooth, unlike the hard points of the structure below. She'd not been taking care of herself, he thought again, and stroked the skin until his concern eased, until she purred and arched to his hands, until they were lost again in the new delight of each other's close embrace.

Castle could listen to Beckett purr for a very long time, but since they were both eased and comfortable, the maudlin mood over and done, he began to stroke more intimately, flirting with the neat curls, skimming the edge of eroticism, beginning to kiss lower, twirling his tongue at her navel, catching her hands before she could pull up his head.

"Just let me," he mumbles into her stomach. "I wanna give you this." _I want to give you everything, because you have no idea what you've given me. Someday, someday soon, I'll tell you_.

"I want _you_ ," she said.

"You have me," he replied, and, made brave by proximity, added, "You're not getting rid of me now." He slid down, and any words she might have said were swallowed up in the cry of _Castle_ as he tasted her for the first time, raised his head to open her fully to him and dipped again, holding her still for his delight. He orchestrated her reactions, loving her frantic movements, the noises that spilled from her lips, her hot, slick arousal and finally, once he'd had his fill of the slow slide, flick and entry of his tongue; the gentle scrape of teeth and the tease of breath over her in place of touch or taste, he brought her up and over with wicked motions and she gasped and cried out his name and shattered under his mouth.

He slithered back up the bed to gather her into him, by no means finished – indeed, barely started. He looked into her eyes, searching for some sign that she was pleased, and found them hazed and profoundly satisfied, softer than he'd ever have believed she could be. She stroked slim, strong hands over his back, down, round, took time to explore and arouse him further, until he was growling deep in his chest and pinned her down to rise above her and be guided home –

And it _was_ home. She was so perfect around him; better than he had ever imagined. His other half. He was never, ever, going to let her go. He kissed her, mouth and body keeping rhythm, she gripped his shoulders and pulled him closer, arched to his thrusts and wrapped her legs around him and then they rose and flew and shattered together.

Castle rolled on to his back and took Beckett with him so that he didn't have to lose an inch of contact with her, revelling in the sensations and the fit of her form to his. She snuggled in, holding him tightly, her head on his shoulder.

"If you hadn't called me," she said, and it took him a second to catch up to the thought, "I'd never have known." Her voice had dropped almost to nothing: half-dreamy, almost melancholy. "Never have been here." She buried her head into his neck.

"But you are here. We're here. Alive, and together." He embraced her, and petted gently. "Always together."

"Together..." she said sleepily. It seemed that she was more asleep than awake, for he was sure she didn't mean to say the next words aloud. "Don't leave me. I so nearly never had you..."

When he looked down, her eyes were closed. He nestled her in, and peacefully closed his eyes himself, thinking her sleeping, but just as he was dropping off, she murmured again.

"I'd never have known. Never have realised... I could have been dead and never knew you like this."

"You're not dead, though. You're here with me, and you're staying with me. Never going to let you go. Never alone, Beckett. Never alone."

"Never?" she queried, hope bleeding through her word.

"Never," he said firmly. "You're mine, and I'm yours. Never alone ever again," and he kissed her hard, proving on her willing mouth the strength of his feelings, and then the heat rose and ignited and he rolled them so she was open beneath him and took her in one smooth, forceful movement so that there was nothing, could be nothing, between them: reaching for heaven and finding it in each other.

"If it were the last night of my life," he whispered, curled together and close to sated sleep, "It would be like this. I'd spend it with you."

"If this were the last night of my life," she replied, "I'd spend it with you too." She paused, and drew a quiet, sighing breath. "This is the last firstnight I'll ever have."

 _ **Fin.**_

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 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially to guests whom I cannot thank directly._

 _Twitter: garrae_writes_


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